


bernadette

by abyssith



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Dream Sex, Dubious Consent, Fix-It, Hand Jobs, M/M, Neck Kissing, Nightmares, Painplay, Restraints, Very Mild Blood, don't read this trust me, i regret beginning to think this ship was nice because it's absolutely not, i've got no fucking idea why i wrote this, it was 12 AM on tumblr and i was weak and needed a new focus, listen this is consensual, the original one wasn't and it was hot but i couldn't enjoy it so HERE'S A FIX IT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 17:51:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16224242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abyssith/pseuds/abyssith
Summary: “Embrace it. Let me take over. Close your eyes…but don’t fall asleep.”





	bernadette

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Shiver](https://archiveofourown.org/works/630022) by [Lindzzz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindzzz/pseuds/Lindzzz). 



> this is actually and literally just the amazing fic that is Shiver by Lindzzz but tweaked so it's consensual so I can rest easy
> 
> \--title from the song Bernadette by IAMX--

When he goes to sleep, there is darkness.

Of course, there is always darkness. The darkness of the underground burrow around him, the darkness of his heavy eyelids, the darkness of a liquid, dreamless sleep.

But tonight, there is a different kind of darkness. He detects it just barely, just moments before he loses consciousness and falls asleep. It’s so quick that the panic that rises in his heart is practically non-existent when he slips away from awareness, and he forgets the heat suffocating him almost instantaneously.

This may simply be because for the first time in decades, he has a nightmare.

All at once he is surrounded by cold, a cold that even he dislikes because of the way its bitter teeth gnaw his limbs and its unforgiving tendrils wrap around his body. He twists and turns and tries to scream, but nothing will come out. Nothing can permeate the freezing water that surges into his mouth when he opens it, and he chokes on it as it rushes down his throat and floods his frail, tiny body. But he doesn’t drown—he never drowns. He never dies. It doesn’t let him.

And so Jack is forced to thrash in the depths of the icy lake with his eyes fixed on the tiny circle of light far, far above his head. He reaches out, doing all he can to struggle away from the inky shadows clinging to his body and dragging him farther down, to the girl he knows is screaming his name.

Now it’s _only_ screaming. Screaming and shrieks and sobs of _Jack, Jack, oh God Jack!_ that fall on helplessly deaf ears. Her face pulses before his eyes and he feels a new substance, colder than even the lake, steal down his face—an impossible feat against physics that he would normally feel triumph at, but it only serves to make his grief worse. These are tears, tears of crystal, the same tears that form snowflakes in gray, frigid skies during the worst of nights.

Beyond the screaming is the sound of crashing ice, of pounds of water over his head thundering like a storm as it crushes him. This is an old fear, muted by time and partially lost, but it’s strong enough. Enough to make Jack’s ice-blue heart to somersault and strain against its tight restraints in his chest. His pulse is like electricity, and in this element it paralyzes him. He sinks like a rock, no shadowy help needed.

The thing is, he doesn’t register much of this. But all he can hear his his sister. Memory has a way of lingering, focusing and enhancing the most minuscule of details. Every thought is about the young girl, a harsh anxiety ringing with dread because _what if she falls in, what if she falls in and dies like me because I’m going to die I’m going to die I’m going to_ die; his lungs are burning and he’s never felt that before because he’s little more than an animated snowman and everyone knows fire kills ice.

Never before has he felt such raw fear. Every inch of him fights against this suddenly terrifying prospect of death. Along with it is equally strong feelings for his sister, praying to whatever God exists beyond the Man in the Moon that she doesn’t follow after him. He keeps screaming despite the only evidence of his voice even working being the silent bubbles that blast in frothy torrents from his mouth. He can’t see the light anymore. Surely he must have reached the bottom of the lake by now, but no, he just keeps getting deeper and deeper. There is nothing down here but water and terror.

Now he’s wishing for death, for this reality to let him rest. But then there is a voice—a deep, husky voice that’s smooth in the same way a snake is smooth—that reverberates around him and shakes the very molecules of the water holding his body.

“I must say, Jack. I’m a little…disappointed.”

Everything yanks to a halt. All at once Jack seems to be at the vortex of a black hole, and for an instant the sounds of the water amplifies to a deafening roar. He’s spinning, yelling, maybe dying, and then he’s lying on his back on rough, uneven stone.

Jack opens his eyes. And there is darkness once again.

For a moment he believes he’s back in his burrow, back where the shadows are his friends. This, however, is not his darkness—this is the same darkness that has a way of melting through his skin and chilling his already freezing veins at the same time it sets his heart on fire. No, he is not home, but he knows where he is.

The realization shocks Jack into standing. He jumps up and summons his staff, knowing already who will stand before him the next time he blinks. Indeed, the man appears in a flourishing fountain of black sand and curling shadows that Jack almost completely misses.

He spots the gleeful, golden eyes and that’s all it takes for the wood under his fingers to crackle over with ice. He raises his voice and focuses on its clarity when he shouts. “Pitch!”

The long, wiry man robed in the very essence of darkness tilts his head. He bares his teeth, displaying sharp pinpricks of fangs that poke at his lower lip from his upper jaw. "Jack,” he says, nodding once.

His voice is like oil, all oozing and warm and thick and resembling something genuinely delightful but instead is full of all the wrong things. But it’s never bothered Jack, that it’s so decidedly _wrong_ —after all, he’s never had anything else to compare it to.

The oil coats his skin like shackles that weigh him down, and it’s a struggle even to lift his staff. He tries to circle Pitch, tries to blink through the drops of blackness that obscure his vision and pull his face into something more submissive. "What,” he says, and then he clears his throat because the noise that came out sounded like a young child confronting the monster under his bed. “ _What_ do you think you’re up to? How—how did you bring me here?”

Pitch watches him, his expression terribly bored possibly because he’s sure Jack isn’t this naive. And he’s not, but it seems like the right thing to say.

His hawkish eyes narrow as he address the younger immortal. “I’m not _up to_ anything, Jack. This is, after all, your nightmare,” he chuckles. “I’m simply here to watch. But—as I’ve said…I’m quite disappointed by what you’ve given me so far.”

Jack wrinkles his nose. No matter how much Pitch’s voice may affect him, may permeate his bloodstream like liquor, he’s never liked how the man seemed to think that all things less than good in the world were meant as his toys or to benefit his enjoyment. “I didn’t give you anything.”

“Death, Jack?” Pitch seems to ignore him. “That seems far too simple a fear for you. Far too—” now his limp curls in a sneer— “ _mortal_ , a fear, for you.”

“Get out of my head,” shouts Jack, and it’s like he just spoke the final words of a satanic chant. With another swirl of shadow that sounds like the winds before a storm Pitch is in front of him, face tight and pulled between a snarl and a grin.

“You brought me here, Jack!” he jeers. He reaches out and taps Jack on the forehead. A real grin splits his pale face as Jack flinches back, shocked at the heat the single light touch generates. “You made this nightmare. I’m only here because it was too delicious of an invitation to pass on.” He leans back, shrugging his narrow shoulders and holding his hands out like a mock apology. “It isn’t my fault if I got bored. So I took matters into my own hands, decided to change the scenery into something a touch more interesting.”

“There’s nothing interesting down here,” Jack mutters, backing away. He can feel the wrinkles of his scowl working the thin skin of his face. “But, what…wait. So—am I still…dreaming? Or are we actually in your little pit?” He doesn’t know which he would prefer, which would be better, which would be worse.

Uncertain now, he probes his mind and tries to do a reality check, but it’s like grabbing at a bar of soap coated in tar. Pitch _sounds_ real, _looks_ real. He even _felt_ real. The thing about rarely dreaming and living so many years is that reality and dreamscapes tend to blur together, and it never really matters until situations like this.

Pitch’s jagged laugh startles Jack back into focus. “Yes!” he says, flinging his arms out in delight. “You’re _here,_ with me, and what greater fun is there than that?”

Jack’s vision tunnels, but he can’t quite figure out why. Anger, maybe. But it’s just as plausible as the rest of the emotions swirling in the cyclone in his head. “I don’t care about your games, Pitch. Where am I?” he demands.

Pitch releases an exasperated sigh and folds his arms. He looks hurt that Jack won’t play along. “Oh, alright. You’re tucked away, safe in your little hole in the ground. But you’re also _here,_ ” he explains, gesturing (quite proudly) at the expansive cavern of bridges and cages. “Because you allowed me to bring you here. And for that, I thank you.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Jack hisses, swallowing hard because of course that’s a lie. But to his knowledge Pitch can only sense fear, not dishonesty, and so he should have nothing more to fear except the man in front of him.

Except no, that _isn’t_ totally a lie, because Jack has never been truly afraid of Pitch. Most, if not all, of the ones who do fear him are frightened because they see him like a monster, a deadly force of nature that would rend their souls from their bodies if he got the chance to.

This isn’t how Jack sees him because he has willingly given Pitch that chance on a multitude of occasions, and despite the fact that he is certainly weaker than the other man, he is still here, standing and whole. Pitch keeps him alive, and though it may be mainly because of the desirable prospect of future hunts, Jack has stopped worrying that Pitch would kill him. Pitch might hurt him, yes—but therein lies the real reason Jack is afraid. Not because he will be hurt, but because of _how._

It is a sensible fear, make no mistake, but it isn’t sensible for Jack because the fear he feels is not the kind that would haunt him while he is awake. It’s a fear capable of immobilizing him, rendering him useless, even of stopping his heart…but for different reasons completely.

He wonders if Pitch can discern this. And _that_ is Jack’s greatest fear at the same time it is his greatest source of excitement.

Pitch is studying him, almost as though he could see the thoughts running miles and miles a second behind his wide blue eyes. Perhaps he can. “No,” he agrees, voice dropping to a low purr, “maybe you’re not. But you’re afraid of _something_ , are you not?”

“You’re the all-knowing King of Nightmares,” Jack mocks. His hands tighten on his staff. “You would know.”

“Oh, I _do,_ ” Pitch says pridefully. He circles Jack, too, so that they’re always facing each other. His smile is still plastered on his face, emphasizing his smooth, strong cheekbones. “Your fear has a bit of a…minty, shall I say, taste to it. I thought you might like to know.”

Jack lets out a sound of frustration and jabs forward with his staff, hoping more to startle Pitch than provoke him. Sadly, it does neither, and he sidesteps the attack with ease. The look of amusement on his face does not waver for a second.

“Just let me go, Pitch,” Jack insists. “Let me wake up—then we can duke this out in real time!”

Pitch shakes his head slowly, a growl of a laugh rumbling in his throat. “I have no intention of doing that, my dear boy. I’m _far_ more interested in you right now, where I have your total attention. Isn’t it lovely, a world where it’s just me and you?”

Suddenly he’s right next to Jack, at his shoulder and just out of his line of sight. Jack stiffens as a long finger traces the shape of his chin, stopping just underneath his ear to draw small, lazy circles. “Yes…we would have so much fun together, you and I.”

Jack’s spike of alarm is so sharp that he knows Pitch felt it. And a second later, Pitch acknowledges it: “Oh, that was delightful. And I thought you said you were not afraid. How can it be, that a simple touch might spark such… _feelings?_ ”

Pitch’s hand comes to surround Jack’s chin, squeezing it tightly and forcing him to look to his side where he is. Jack jerks back, instinctively jabbing the staff into the other man’s stomach with a yelp. Pitch releases him, stumbling back, not hurt but laughing instead.

“I’m _not,_ ” Jack repeats loudly, “ _afraid._ ”

“Of me, maybe. But of death?” Pitch bends forward, gliding less than walking over to him like a ghost. “Of being _numb?_ Surely, Jack, you aren’t possibly afraid of that?”

Jack keeps his mouth stubbornly shut, backing away as Pitch comes nearer. Their eyes lock and, like always, the fire of gold and gray that no one has hope of controlling mesmerizes Jack into silence. Pitch’s teeth flash a blinding white in the minimal light filling the cave. “I wish you could feel what I feel, _taste_ what I taste, Jack,” he laments. “You must understand, it’s simply intoxicating. _You’re_ simply intoxicating. And so…I seek more and more of it. It helps that it isn’t in the least very hard.”

“Back _off_ ,” Jack says, spitting. His eyes flit around Pitch’s form, searching for an exit. “Or I’ll—I’ll—!”

“If you’re going to try and be threatening, make sure you don’t look like the frightened child you are.” Pitch’s voice is scathing, scolding. “Come now. We were having a good conversation.”

“You were _monologuing._ ”

“Yes, as I said, a good conversation.” Pitch pauses, and then advances quickly as he speaks. “So tell me, Jack, how did it feel? That idea of _death?_ You came so close, you know, both to surviving and to dying—you must have known all you had to do was give a few kicks. Unfortunately for you, your body is not so cooperative.”

Jack backs up, and in his scramble to stay one step ahead of Pitch he nearly falls. Pitch’s hand flashes out and grabs the fabric of his sweatshirt collar before he can, though, and yanks him back up.

Then, in the same fluid motion, Pitch wrenches the staff from his hand at the same time he pins Jack against a cold wall of shadow that Jack is _sure_ was not there before. He struggles, setting his jaw and looking fiercely up at his adversary. He watches as Pitch tosses the staff over his shoulder, where it dissolves into a pile of black sand that soon disappears in the cavern breeze.

“And here you are now,” Pitch continues, “helpless once again. Completely at my mercy. What is it that say, that wind cannot be caught in a net? I expect you dislike the notion of being restrained. What a curious, wonderful fear that would be. Is that true, Jack?”

Jack can feel his teeth grinding behind his tightly closed lips. Pitch’s face is inches above his, leering down at him. He must see something in Jack’s eyes, because his face brightens and he leans away triumphantly. “Oh, it _is!_ ” Pitch gloats. “God, I can feel it on you. That same cold I’m sure you felt in that lake, miles away from your dear little sister. My dearest condolences that you couldn’t get back to her. But all in all, it worked out perfectly, because you must realize you couldn’t possibly save her if she fell in after you. _That’s_ it, isn’t it? How separate you become from the place you can control. It _terrifies_ you, Jack, it shakes your core.”

Now his face is beyond where Jack can see. His lips brush Jack’s ears as the man whispers, “How helpless you must be.”

Something strong churns in his stomach. He almost chokes on the acidic taste it leaves in his mouth. Pitch’s hand, still fisted in the fabric of his hoodie, feels like a ball of molten iron on his chest. Jack can hear himself breathing harder and harder, can feel the river of blood surging through his head.

Pitch gets even closer, his words unrelenting. “Does it remind you of being alone, Jack?” he breathes. “Was it like trying everything just to be noticed while the world passed through you? You think you have everything you need, now, with all your precious child believers and your little Guardian friends. So why is it, then, that you still find yourself _alone?_ ”

Jack is gasping now, unable to bear the pressing heat of Pitch’s body and breath and words along with his tantalizing proximity. “Shut up,” he says weakly.

There is a hungry wolf that sneers through Pitch’s voice. “Maybe,” he muses, “you’re finally starting to realize you will never really belong with them.”

Finally Jack snaps. He shoves back, crying out and thrusting his body and arms forward. A blast of icy wind starbursts from his body, powerful like his fluttering heart. “You don’t know anything!”

He would have preferred an _actual_ burst of cold, but in this nightmare it’s less than a gust of winter air. Still, Pitch steps back, smiling devilishly. A moment later he disappears, his body melting away into shadow that chases into the darkness beyond Jack’s sight.

Taunting laughter echoes around him as Jack carefully moves away from the wall, turning slowly, never looking at one place too long. From his peripheral he notices movement; he looks quickly, catching the last of the shadows that had built the temporary wall disappear. Everything in here is magnified—the sound of his feet padding on stone, the lack of oxygen in his lungs, his panting as he tries to catch his breath.

“Pitch,” Jack calls, finally feeling panic bubble in his throat. He lets it because he knows it’s like an appetizer after weeks of fasting to the Nightmare King, and he would much rather have Pitch in front of him instead of lurking everywhere at once. “Stop hiding, Pitch! You get me back my staff and then w—”

His voice breaks and he can barely choke back a cry as his back hits Pitch’s solid weight. It burns into his skin and Jack tries to jump forward, but the shadows dart in before he can properly react. They twine around his arms and lash them to his sides; around his feet, they close around his ankles and calves and tangle his thighs like lengths of chain. A thin grey hand claps over his mouth, grabbing his lower jaw and holding it firmly shut.

“Then what, Jack?” Pitch murmurs in his ear. The oil returns with the fragrance of a clear winter breeze in pine branches, tempting and liberating. “What will you do? What will I do?”

Jack wants to shout against Pitch’s hand, bite it even, but the strength of the older immortal shocks him. He can’t even open his mouth.

“I’m sure you’d love to leave.” Pitch holds him fast, draping his other arm over Jack’s shoulder and holding onto the other. He lets Jack fight and try to twist in his grip, but his hold does not budge. “And, really, I couldn’t help it if you did. All you have to do is wake up, after all!” Jack can hear the grin in his words, even more so when Pitch’s hand clenches as Jack jerks forward.

Jack gathers what air he can muster and looses it in one long, loud cry that is muffled against his lips and Pitch’s hands. He keeps fighting to escape, but with every movement the shadows that bind him seem to only get heavier. When the first sweat breaks out against his skin, he relaxes against his will. His nostrils flares with the futile effort.

For a moment his breathing slows, but as it dawns on him that for the moment, he can do nothing against his enemy, it rapidly accelerates once again. He feels the arm around his chest disappear. The next instant, there is a hand carding through his tangled hair, reassuring and threatening at the same time.

A small, involuntary whimper vibrates through his throat as Jack goes completely still.

“Oh, Jack…I do know. You’re not like them. They know it, you know it. How horrible, how lonely it must feel to know your purpose only hinders theirs, because, after all, you are the wind that blows out their righteous flame.” Pitch snorts at his own words, and Jack can feel him shaking his head. “You may all be _pals,_ but you’ll never be the same as them. Always the odd one out, always the little black sheep of the happy, hardworking family. But I know, Jack. I know what that’s like, being the rejected one. And do you know, it doesn’t have to be like that? They _squander_ , they _repress_ your potential, trying to shape you into something you are not. But you can _escape_ that, Jack.” The hand in his hair stills. “Oh, if only you would let yourself get lost…with _me._ ”

It’s an old argument. Jack has countless memories stored away where he has heard these same words. At the same time, this version of it seems different. _Feels_ different. And maybe it has something to do with Pitch being so close and holding him so tightly, so _possessively._  Jack almost considers it for real, but the self that had been conditioned by the Guardians and shaped by the children who believe in him has him shake his head fervently against Pitch’s hand.

Pitch makes an irritated sound. “You still disagree? You think it’s alright that they only pay attention when they could use you, Jack? You’re a _tool!_ They didn’t care until they decided you were useful and you _let them use you!_ ” The hand in Jack’s hair clenches painfully tight. A high-pitched, agonized grunt slips free.

“You think me cruel. Evil. Brutally honest. The opposite of what they tell you is good. But I swear, Jack. We could help each other. I do wish you might understand that, that we were made for each other. Disbelieve me if you must, but surely even you have noticed it. A shame I didn’t reach you sooner.”

Jack is glad he can’t respond, because he isn’t sure he would know how to. And it’s only getting harder to think as Pitch keeps stroking him, keeps flexing the fingers around his mouth and chin. Something like a veil of thick smoke, like a mix of nicotine and gasoline fumes, blankets his mind and prevents him from thinking straight.

His breaths come shallower and shorter. He feels his heart thrash against his ribs like a fireball, and nervous perspiration condenses on his skin as accordingly.

Pitch must feel something, because the larger man suddenly moves and Jack can feel his gaze burning into his skull. “Oh, dear…whatever is the matter?”

Jack doesn’t have time to prepare for the hand in his hair to tighten again. He lets out a muffled shriek of pain as Pitch forces his head back against his shoulder, and a wicked smile accompanied with blazing eyes fills his view. He quickly slams his eyes shut, unable to stand both Pitch’s voice and face simultaneously.

“It’s only a dream, boy. Whatever has the brave and bold Jack Frost so terrified now?”

The weight on his head disappears, but he can’t move away because it returns just as soon  around his cheek and trails down to his chin.

Slowly, experimentally, it slides over his throat like a velvet noose. It scrapes a whimper from his vocal chords—when he does this, Pitch’s fingers automatically close around his neck.

Jack whines even louder on instinct, eyes widening because he really can’t breathe now. His chest heaves with complaints.

“Oh…” There’s a hiss as Pitch sucks in a breath. His hand moves back up to cup Jack’s jaw, rubbing his fingers over the vulnerable skin underneath to feel the cold pulse jump. A low laugh floats around Jack’s head like a phantom melody. “Just look at you…”

Jack listens to the sound of air whistling in and out of his nose, so fast it sounds like someone’s racing footsteps in the snow. Pitch is still for a tense moment.

His hand drifts back down, taking its sweet time, inching its way down Jack’s throat. A shudder jolts over his back.

He swallows, hard, and his muscles quake when he feels his Adam’s apple bump up against Pitch’s hand. He knows Pitch can feel it. He _hears_ Pitch feel it, hears the little, pleasantly surprised hum emit from behind his thin black lips.

Pitch flexes his fingers, testing his grip. He must enjoy the way Jack’s lungs hitch with every gasp, the way his stomach sucks in on itself as Jack’s body fights the battle of evading and pursuing Pitch’s touch. He keeps shaking his head, keeps making little sounds of protest; deep inside of him there’s still someone really trying to fight back.

It’s all for naught. Pitch will not let him go.

Pitch’s hand reaches the top of Jack’s sweatshirt and stops. Jack makes a sound, not unlike the noise of a begging dog, as his long fingers slowly spread until just the tips slide under the thick fabric. “Three hundred years,” Pitch muses softly. “Is that how long it’s been, Jack? Since someone really touched you?”

Jack shakes his head, wishing his muffled cries weren’t so quiet or so common. Pitch’s fingers delicately trace the ridge of his collarbone, drawing shivers from wherever they dance.

The hoodie is stretched to its limit when Pitch then wraps his hand over the curve of Jack’s bare shoulder, pressing in lightly with his nails. The man pulls Jack back, flush against his chest, so that he can hear every word he breathes.

“You and your little friends…you may tag and shove and nudge each other. But a true caress…” Pitch chuckles, and the sound is enough to make Jack nearly moan. “You’re _entirely_ undone. Horrifying, isn’t it? Being unable to cope with the simplest touches. Did you long for them while you were alone? Were there nights where you wanted nothing more than to feel? To have the simple drag of skin against yours?”

Jack twists, trying to loose himself, and he doesn’t know why—maybe because indeed, he needs to feel, to touch himself because Pitch isn’t going fast enough. Every inch of his skin is covered in sweat, and his stomach hurts with how hard he gasps. The shadows respond to his fighting and twine further up his limbs, in time with their master taking his hand out of Jack’s shirt and instead snaking around his chest to hold him fast.

“Shh—you’ve fought me for so long, Jack. Would it be nice to just let go?” Pitch’s hand spreads and rubs large circles over Jack’s heart. Jack tries not to wish there was no clothing separating their skin. “Embrace it. Let me take over. Close your eyes…but don’t fall asleep.”

Jack whines faintly, itching for his touch. And this time Pitch obliges, skimming his hand over Jack’s front. He tenses when Pitch finds the hem of his sweatshirt and rests against his skin again.

Jack didn’t even know he was capable of the wanton sound it pulls from him. Shutting his eyes tight, he writhes at Pitch’s enticingly invasive warmth. He keeps whimpering as Pitch explores his torso, curling or stroking his hand over his icy skin. Every brush, every rub, every prod makes a new sound leap from Jack’s mouth, and he can feel Pitch beginning to lose himself, too.

The man makes sounds that are almost inaudible, but are there nonetheless. They’re like softer versions of Jack’s own moans, mimicking him and inviting him to cry louder. And Jack does, lifting his voice and shuddering and straining against Pitch’s hand.

When Pitch finds his ribs, Jack sucks in a deep breath and holds it for what feels like an eternity. He doesn’t make a sound as Pitch traces each bone outlined against his skin, whimpering only when the man begins to dig his nails in. He tries to flee from them but Pitch is always there, everywhere he tries to lean. The dull pain along each rib begins to burn, but it’s nothing compared to the sensation of Pitch’s fingers suddenly brushing up against his nipple.

He arches his back sharply, gasping and wildly shaking his head. There is a thoughtful hesitation from Pitch, and Jack can practically hear his mischievous thoughts as clearly as if he had said them out loud. When Pitch thumbs the nub slowly, deliberately, Jack is alarmed but not surprised. He bends back again, a cocktail of panting and moaning drifting out from between Pitch’s fingers.

The hand covering Jack’s mouth tightens, pulls, makes him tilt his head back again. He tries to look up at Pitch, but the intensity of his golden gaze sears him like a brand. Jack squeezes his eyes shut, instead focusing on how his hollow body thrashes and jolts on its own.

“Look at me!” Pitch demands, and Jack’s chest fills with a startled breath. “I said _look at me,_ Jack! Let me see everything!”

Jack almost doesn’t, but when his nipple is fiercely twisted to the side, his eyes snap wide open as a trill of pain explodes into the air around him. Pitch is grinning maliciously, holding Jack fast.

Jack’s body is bent like a bow, every inch of it shaking and an angry red where Pitch has marked him. He doesn’t try to look away. He tries to beg with his eyes, pleading for something, _anything_ more. He presses his face into Pitch’s hand and moans slavishly. The moan peaks into another cry when Pitch tweaks his nipple again, laughing quietly to himself.

“That’s it…” he says softly, curling his fingers into Jack’s skin. “Keep moaning, Jack, just like that.” Jack watches Pitch’s lip curl and grit his teeth, a sign that something more is on the way.

His body reacts before his brain registers the pain. His breathing hitches into a high, distressed whine as Pitch’s nails dig into him, dragging four deep lines of scarlet down Jack’s chest. He writhes like a fish in Pitch’s arms as the nails continue down, marring the skin from sternum to stomach. Pitch takes it slow, too, and his self-indulgent sighs get louder along with Jack’s whimpers.

“You’re mine, Jack,” growls Pitch, strangling Jack’s face with his other hand. “You understand that? You belong to _me._ ”

Jack wants to protest, but he can’t think through the rich pain. When Pitch reaches his hips, he flicks his hand up again, walking his fingers back up Jack’s torso and allowing him to feel the aftermath of the shallow wounds. Frost wafts from Jack’s nose in little desperate puffs of vapor.

Finally Pitch returns to the waistband of his trousers, and there it lingers for what feels like an eternity. His fingers trace the rise of his hips and Jack wrenches to the side, groaning at his own sensitivity. Pitch grips him just underneath his pants and steadies him, shushing Jack in his ear. “Stay still, boy. Let me touch you.”

Jack squirms, wishing for the millionth time that his mouth was free so he could refill his frantic lungs. His voice breaks on a long, quivering whine as Pitch’s hand finds his erection, cupping it lightly. The older man squeezes gently and Jack feels it twitch; he pulls his shoulders in, looking up helplessly as his body rolls under Pitch’s hand. His hips push forward and his head whips from side to side.

“Shhh, Jack…” Pitch’s hand slides up and down Jack’s erection, just barely separated by the thin doeskin of his trousers. “That’s it, you gorgeous boy. There you go. How curious, how divine, the taste of your fear…what is this?”

Jack can feel that the hand on his mouth has gotten limper. He bites his lip and keeps his eyes closed as Pitch’s fingers scramble at the waistband ties, yanking the lacing out and tugging to loosen the bunched fabric. He reaches in and works Jack’s full length out.

A startled moan permeates the electric atmosphere. Jack’s body is tense, tightened, feverishly hot. He feels Pitch begin to close around him, curling his larger form over Jack’s and pressing ever so close.

Every huff of air breaks on a whimper, hitching as Pitch slowly pulls his hand up. His fingers work expertly, wandering over Jack’s throbbing erection and tracing the rigid veins. He manages to find the tip and rubs his finger over the slit, smearing the icy fluid over the head.

Jack moves nonstop now, bending forward and back and trying to stay steady on his trembling thighs. His hips rock up into Pitch’s hand, trying in vain to generate more friction. Pitch’s grip tightens around Jack and begins to stroke faster, faster, wringing every last gasp and choked moan free from Jack’s throat.

Pitch begins to get louder, too; with every heartbeat his husky panting gets more and more excited. He drops his forehead onto Jack’s shoulder and pulls his head to the side, bearing his neck. “Louder,” he insists. Teeth bite into Jack’s skin a second later, drawing a wail from his lips. “ _Louder._ ”

Tears prick at Jack’s eyes. He feels like an instrument, making newer, higher sounds the faster Pitch plays him. He groans at the hickeys, he moans at the strokes. The only constant is the heat of Pitch’s body that now traps him like a poisoned net.

Pitch places a kiss at the base of Jack’s neck and then sucks with an unyielding passion. Jack’s voice wavers and then comes back even higher, a stream of muffled whimpers getting milked out of him. Pitch’s hand strokes with a crazed speed. He nips Jack’s jaw and whispers, “Scream for me, boy. I want to hear you scream my name.”

And then, _finally,_ he releases Jack’s mouth. The boy sucks down air like he’s run for miles and it doesn’t stop until he finds his voice. He surprises himself with his frenzied wails, loud and clear for the first time since Pitch first touched him. Pitch’s body sways behind him. “Oh, fuck,” he mutters. “God, Jack, _scream._ ”

Jack has no problem obeying this order. There is a drunken haze that gathers and then spreads throughout his body, blinding him to everything except the hand around his cock, the mouth on his neck, and the hand now pulling through his hair once again. He cries out, fighting for each breath.

“Say my name, Jack.”

“Pitch,” Jack breathes, forcing the sound out through his teeth.

“You can do better than that, you filthy slut.” Pitch’s teeth breaks through the first layer of his skin and Jack gives a short scream. He feels a drop of blood trail down his neck, staining the white with red.

“ _Pitch!_ ” Jack wails loud this time and bucks wildly. He’s so close, so terribly close to the edge. “Shit, Pitch, please—” His head lolls back and his mouth opens soundlessly, a layer of saliva coating his lips.

“Beg for it,” Pitch snarls, jerking him hard. “You want to come, Jack?”

“Yes _—_ yes,” Jack gasps. “Pitch, pl— _a-h-h—_ ”

Pitch yanks at Jack’s hair, pulling his head at an angle that would snap a lesser being’s neck. Jack’s body shakes like a leaf in a hurricane, locking up as it prepares for his release. But Pitch won’t let him, not yet. “A bit more,” he says, voice little more than a rough whisper.

Jack struggles to stay conscious. His vision swims before him; he is growing numb to the splotches of sharp heat lining up and down his throat. “Please, Pitch,” he pleads, coughing out a strangled groan.

Pitch’s deep rasp in his ear makes Jack choke. “Come on then, Jack, you whore. Come for me, just me.”

Jack clenches his teeth and thrusts forward, crying out because _he’s so close_ —

“Jack,” Pitch moans, biting his earlobe. “ _Come for me._ ”

And that’s all it takes. Jack’s entire body goes deathly still right before he convulses, a wail ripping free from his mouth the whole time. He jolts and fights as he comes, and eventually he can’t hear or feel anything at all. Somewhere, in the far distance, he feels Pitch’s face pressed against his hair, a hand catching the freezing cum from his length, a silky voice murmuring sweet nothings into his bruising ear.

Jack is sure he blacks out, because when he opens his eyes, he is slumped against Pitch and crying silent tears. His throat feels like a hyena had reached in and tore its claws along it. His body is on fire but it is empty, and should Pitch step away from him, he would have no strength to stand on his own.

But Pitch remains, still holding Jack up. Both men are panting, exhausted; if Jack focuses, he thinks he can feel a heavy warmth on the back of his legs beginning to dry up. Pitch must have come at the same time he did.

Finally Jack can muster enough energy to straighten up. Pitch’s hands are still on him, one over his stomach and one over his collar and neck, close enough to feel his pulse. Slowly Jack turns, finding Pitch’s eyes already on him. They gaze at each other for a long moment, and maybe Jack would have said something. But before he can, there is a powerful pulling feeling at his body. Nausea and vertigo blossoms all throughout him and he’s reaching forward, trying to speak, but then

everything goes

black.

 

* * *

 

In a small hole, deep underground, Jack wakes with a gasp. He sits up and scrambles back, stopping only when he hits an ice-covered wall and he has to sit there for a few moments to catch his breath.

He looks down at himself, stares at his shaking hands. He touches his neck lightly, expecting it to flare in pain, but it doesn’t.

He yanks his sweatshirt over his head and throws it to the side, growing frantic now—there is nothing on his body besides pale skin beginning to break out in goosebumps.

Slowly Jack pulls it back on, swallowing and touching a hand to his heart. He flinches back when he feels it speeding faster than he has ever felt before. He looks around him, where rocks and sunken alcoves in the wall cast long shadows over his body.

Jack bites his lip.

He has to find Pitch.

 

_END_

**Author's Note:**

> should the author of the inspired work ever read this, I do hope you don't mind I took many direct lines of dialogue/description from your fic. some of them were just way too good to change. honestly this was like practice for me because it's been a long while since I wrote smut and frankly I needed something easy to get back into it. I doubt this can measure up to how good the original was, but I did my best!
> 
> EDIT 10/9: planning a sequel for this fic. as of right now it'll probably just be another one shot like this one, but we'll see. contact me with any questions or curiosities you may have~


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